


A Thoroughly Reliable Someone

by Rehfan



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Background Case, Blow Jobs, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Masturbation, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Sherlock Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-15
Updated: 2019-05-14
Packaged: 2020-03-05 16:08:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 23
Words: 15,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18832057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rehfan/pseuds/Rehfan
Summary: "Sherlock laid back down and reached for his phone. It was useless, of course, being as sodden as the rest of him. The rushing sound of the water came back to him. All he could do was wait. Wait for death. Or wait for John."





	1. Chapter 1

The smell was the first thing to register when he began to come to: the strong smell of brine and the decay of rotting fish, sea kelp, and that peculiar smell rocks took on when they were constantly attacked by the sea. He could hear the roar now, dull and getting louder. If he were any judge, he would expect the wave to hit him soon. It didn’t. Instead the sound retracted and went far off, the sound of it bounced around and hollowed out by the cavern he knew he must be laying in.

 

He had a memory of his older brother holding a shell to his ear. He had told him that the sea was contained inside its pink surface. He heard the whoosh and flow of it, but when he tried with a different shell, one more flat and shallow, it wouldn’t come. He remembered his brother’s laughter. “No, silly. It only works with this kind.”

 

“But don’t all shells come from the sea?” he had asked, confused.

 

“Yes, but the trick only works with this kind.”

 

Ah, so it was a trick. He knew that it had to be something like that. Mycroft was always full of tricks and deceit. And yet his brother wondered why he didn’t entirely trust him.

 

The sound came again, a dull roar building to a crescendo and fading off again. Where was he again, exactly? Oh yes. The actor-turned-thief-turned-murderer. How dramatic of him to put together a final confrontation in the bowels of a deserted castle ruin on the craggy coast of England. Sherlock cursed his instinct toward the piece of theater. He knew it had been a trap. He wasn’t stupid, just intrigued. And so he arrived at the appointed hour and took up his role of “duped investigator” and “audience”, allowing the man to take his time and enjoy the part, spilling all his machinations out to Sherlock in a frenzied and almost bewildered explanation of “how he done it”.

 

What Sherlock wasn’t looking for was the partner. He was certain she had left town. All the clues led to that conclusion. Yet, there she was, madder than the artist, the behind-the-scenes sidekick who snuck in and managed to knock Sherlock senseless twice, leaving him reeling. The blows made his head smart, but gave him time enough to overhear their heated exchange before the artist dispatched his angered partner with a single shot. Then there was a shuffle of feet and then oblivion.

 

What he didn’t understand was how he came to this cavern, stinking of low tide? He tenderly attempted a deep breath. At least two of his ribs were broken on the left side, he estimated, perhaps three. Shifting his weight slightly was agony. His head pounded. A hand felt in his curls and located a deep laceration of the scalp and wet sticky blood. He grunted and opened his eyes for the first time.

 

The black was impenetrable. He couldn’t see his blood-stained hand in front of his face. Hours must have passed with him laying there. Sand, broken shell, seaweed, and jutting rock were everywhere as he attempted to shift again. It was then he became aware that he was soaking wet as his clothing stuck to him and his feet squished in his saturated socks and shoes. All this might have been taken in stride: the broken ribs, the bleeding scalp, the wet clothing, except his right lower leg was being uncooperative. It wouldn’t move. It seemed stuck to the place where it lay. It seemed broken. He raised his head to estimated the damage and lowered it back down with a muttered “Stupid” when he realized that he was still in the dark. He would have to sit up to probe his lower leg. Or he could turn on his side, but with the craggy rocks underneath and all around and the shattered ribs on that side, any movement would be painful.

 

Slowly, he snaked a hand down his thigh, his breathing hitched and shallow. The knee seemed intact. His ribs screamed. The gash in his pate beat a tattoo into his skull. His stomach churned as he felt the swollen flesh and what he perceived to be a deformity of the bone under his pant leg. Tibial fracture. Not a death sentence, if he were in his own front garden and had fallen out of a tree and could easily be sent to hospital, but this? In a sea cave off the coast of England with no aid?

 

Sherlock laid back down and reached for his phone. It was useless, of course, being as sodden as the rest of him. The rushing sound of the water came back to him. All he could do was wait.

 

Wait for death. Or wait for John.


	2. Chapter 2

“Where did he go?” asked Lestrade, running a hand through his hair.

 

“How the hell should I know?” asked John. Papers flew aside, picture postcards for art events, notices for plays, all strewn upon the floor of their flat. “All he said in the last text he sent was to meet him at that castle ruin and I’ve been there and there’s nothing. Not him. Not a murderer. Not a bloody sausage.”

 

“Yeah, I know. We’ve combed the place too.” Lestrade began to pace, looking this way and that at the detritus on the floor. “He knew he was an artist?”

 

“An actor, yeah.”

 

“Deceitful bastard had to be a good liar to have escaped our notice this long,” said Lestrade. He stooped to pick one card up. “’Late Night Catechism’? What the hell’s this one about?”

 

“A nun teaching adults catechism, apparently,” said John, still continuing to dig, only in a different corner of the room. “Supposed to be funny. Audience participation and all that. Sherlock discounted it. Our guy, he said, would want a show to himself, but he was definitely not going to go out there as a Carmelite nun in full habit.”

 

“Right,” said Lestrade, tucking the notice into his pocket.

 

“So what are we doing?” said Lestrade. “Feels like we’re spinning our wheels.”

 

John stopped his manic search, his back to Lestrade. Arms braced against the table he took a deep breath and sighed. His shoulder ached. It was going to rain. And Sherlock was in trouble. He knew it in his soul. He would never forgive himself if…. Never.

 

John suddenly straightened up. “I’m going back to the ruin.”

 

“Are you mad? It’ll be dark soon.”

 

“We missed something. We did. I know we did,” said John as he threw on his coat and grabbed his weapon. He paused at the door. “You coming?”

 

“Try and stop me,” said Lestrade.


	3. Chapter 3

The shock of cold water touching his scalp woke him. The nausea took over from there. Sherlock breathed deeply, calming the instinct to wretch. He was concussed, that much was certain. And the water had gotten closer. The back of his head now rested in a small puddle. Seaweed tickled at his ear.

 

He had to get out. Panic gripped his chest and he attempted to sit up despite his ribs arguing against him. His head swam, and if he were able to see, he was certain his vision would have been doubled. But the cave remained pitch dark. And now it was filling with water.

 

His panic rose and he began to gasp as his hand was touched by a tendril of water from the next wave. He screamed. The cave screamed back at him. The nausea won. Leaning to his right he let go, spitting out the remains left in his mouth when his last meal had passed.

 

He laid back down and tried not to weep with the pain.

 

Another wave came and soaked him to the shoulders. At least now he knew from which direction to expect help. “John,” he muttered. “I’m so sorry.”


	4. Chapter 4

The castle was modest as one thinks of them. One expects jolly great moats and high battlements that stretch out for ages to either side of the imposing gates and drawbridge. This particular ruin still had its moat, long gone dry and sod with grass. Its drawbridge was a reconstruction, built sturdy and it had railings. The main archway was still intact and as John and Lestrade passed beneath it in the dark of night, their torchlight caressed the curve of the ancient stone. No one stopped them.

 

“Creepier at night,” muttered Lestrade to no one in particular.

 

“Keep your eyes open,” instructed John, “and your ears.”

 

“And my nose too, professor?” asked Lestrade. “I am a cop, you know.”

 

“I know, I know, Greg,” said John. “Sorry. I’m just trying to- “

 

“Keep control,” said Lestrade. “I know the feeling.”

 

They moved along the entry corridor and out through the back of the structure. Here it was all open, the walls lost to sea air and time. Short boxy structures of stone fronted by placards denoted what the old chambers were once used for: servant quarters, bakery. John walked along the cliff, turning around to take in the turret behind them. This castle’s structure was more up than out, its battlements two storeys above them. Off the main castle to John’s right, there was another room. This one had no placard and no roof. Above his head by twelve or so feet he could see periodic indentations from where the wooded ceiling beams once were placed into the stone walls. The floor was a patchwork of flagstone.

 

John searched every corner of this, pausing here and there to put a hand against a crack in between the rocks or to push against a discolored stone. He had no idea what he was looking for. He looked back at Lestrade who was investigating a spiral staircase that was blocked off years ago by some steel bars meant to prevent the homeless from squatting and/or doing drugs in secluded nooks above. The policeman pulled on the bars anyway. They didn’t give.

 

“I don’t get it,” said Lestrade. “There’s no sign anyone has been here. Not even us. Footprints on stone are only good if you’ve got a wet foot or a sandy floor. There’s nothing here.”

 

“We can’t stop,” said John. “Correction: I can’t stop. I can’t not look for him, Greg.” He sighed. “I may not be the cleverest, but I’m not a total moron. And neither are you.”

 

Lestrade sat on one of the stone steps that led to the base of the staircase. “I don’t see where they could have gotten to. There’s only this room here, the back garden that we just came from, and the front entrance. Even the moat had fuck all in it. And there’s no way anyone could get up there,” he said, his thumb indicating the staircase at his back. “Hasn’t provided anyone access in ages.”

 

John pointed his torch up above to where the staircase presumably led. “I can’t see that this thing has any roof to speak of anymore. If someone’s in trouble up there, we have to consider that they’re unconscious. Knocked out. Otherwise we’d hear them, wouldn’t we?”

 

“We would, except how would they have gotten up there? Assail the walls? These bars wouldn’t let a fat housecat through, never mind a couple of grown people,” said Lestrade. He shook his head. “I can’t see it, John, mate.”

 

“He wouldn’t leave me without a way to find him,” John said. Then, under his breath, he added: “Not again.” John closed his eyes tightly and pushed their last argument out of his mind. Even in that state, he wouldn’t leave him without telling him something. He just wouldn’t. They’d talked about that. They’d promised. He’d promised. Sherlock PROMISED.

 

John’s torchlight sank to the floor and he waited for inspiration, a miracle, God Himself to come down and point the way to Sherlock. He didn’t even care about catching the crim any more. He just wanted Sherlock back. He wanted to share a giggle with him. He wanted to hear him prattle inanities about clues and mind palaces. He wanted to be ignored by him one more time. Just once.

 

“Send me a fucking sign, you impossible bastard.”


	5. Chapter 5

He couldn’t really feel his right ankle. His hands were numb. His head still ached. His ribs weren’t too bad unless he tried to breathe.

The water was in a layer underneath him now.

It was either going to drown him or bear him up and out to sea and then drown him.

Sherlock was interested to know which it would be.


	6. Chapter 6

Lestrade had given John a while to come to his senses. John knew that. It was madness to be out here in this relic in the dark searching for a man who could have fucked off home by now. John and Greg could just walk into 221B and see him there in his dressing gown looking slightly smug but pretending innocence: “Where have you two been? I solved the case ages ago. Didn’t you get my text?”

 

The fucker.

 

John reflexively checked his phone display. Just the notice about meeting him here and being sure to come armed. Fucking fucker.

 

“Anything new?” asked Lestrade.

 

“No,” said John, straightening up. The stone had been cold against his back as he leaned there. He sent his torchlight up into the parapets once more. “There’s an up. Is there a down?”

 

“What?”

 

“No, nothing. Just muttering.”

 

“No, it’s not nothing,” said Lestrade.

 

“’Course it is. It’s silly,” said John.

 

A beam of light hit John full in the face. “Tell me what you just said.” Lestrade’s measured voice brooked no argument.

 

“Jesus, all right,” said John, “I said: ‘There’s an up. Is there a down?’ There. You happy? Like I said, stupid.”

 

“You know, I’m beginning to see what Sherlock sees in you,” said Lestrade.

 

“What are you on about?”

 

“Mate. We’re stood in a bleedin’ CASTLE.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Yeah. And I’m a copper. And where do coppers put bad guys in castles?”

 

“In the dungeon.”

 

John could have kissed Lestrade.

 

Lestrade beamed at John in the torchlight. “Let’s get to looking downward.”


	7. Chapter 7

The water pooled beneath him and Sherlock made a decision. He would leave his coat behind. It would only weigh him down and the light blue shirt he had on underneath would make him more visible to any rescue party.

 

For the first time, he felt hopeful.

 

Carefully, he pulled his thick black coat off of him. It was already heavy with water and nearly impossible to strip off from a supine position, but it was better than a prone one, he observed. His numb hands stumbled over the buttons as one by one they came apart from their cloth moorings. His right arm came out easily with little complaint from his ribs. His left, however, proved to be troublesome.

 

Bracing himself for pain he took the left cuff in his right and moved his torso aside to allow his left shoulder its freedom. He stopped, having made a few inches of progress. Another wave of water came along, covering his head and moving down his body, filling his shoes. It soon retreated and he tugged again. He pulled too hard and his ribs stabbed him for his efforts. It took him two more waves before he tried again towards his goal.

 

His shoulder finally free, he attempted to pull his arm out but wound up taking the coat sleeve with him, inverting the material. He didn’t care. The next wave came and the experiment could officially begin. Would he be borne up, or drown where he lay?


	8. Chapter 8

It wasn’t a good shot, but it was the only thing that made any fucking sense. They made their way back out to the cliff edge and searched the perimeter beginning with the cliff edge. It was a sheer drop of about one hundred-fifty feet to the sea and rocks below. Lestrade moved along one side toward the low stone squares of what used to be out buildings and stepped carefully between stones and the chain-link fencing that bordered the cliff’s edge.

 

John walked the other side of the perimeter looking for any sign of life. He made his way between the starting point and the castle itself and back again, seeing nothing. Reaching the point of the cliff again, he registered a tremor in his left hand. He opened and closed his fist, shaking it. He needed to calm himself. He needed to not just see but observe. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and searched again.

 

Slowly, he took in the whole of the landscape from his standpoint at the cliff’s edge. He saw the castle and its foundation, the stairs and the stones. He saw the common pathways that tourists had trodden in the grass, noticed where the groundskeepers had made their efforts. And then he saw something he wouldn’t have noticed had he not taken the time. But it couldn’t be, could it?

 

He walked slowly to the place in the fence where the sea grass grew, shorn on his side of the fence by the care of the lawn maintenance personnel and the other side left to grow wild and long. Some of the long grass was caught in the fencing in an unusual way. It was as if the fence was not secured to the pole and someone, passing through, had left the chain link to fall back and capture the errant grasses in its wake.

 

Reaching the point, he pressed against the chain-link. It gave way easily and was loose enough to provide room for a full-grown man to pass easily. God damn it.

 

His torchlight fell into the grass beyond the point. Now that his eyes were opened, he could clearly see the path made by people who had passed through recently. The trail led in the distance and downward, running parallel to the edge of that portion of the cliff. It wasn’t dangerously close to the edge, but it wasn’t far. Still. It had to be tried.

 

“Greg!” he called. “Got a minute?”


	9. Chapter 9

The cold was almost comforting at this point. His only annoyance was the waves that kept breaking over his head. He couldn’t feel his hands anymore. His leg throbbed, but faintly. He knew it was hypothermia combined with blood loss, but there wasn’t a thing he could do about it.

 

Absently, he wondered where John was. He could hear his voice in his head shouting about how foolish it had been to go off without him. But there hadn’t been time, John, he thought. If he had waited, David Barnum would have scarpered and there would have been opportunity lost. He could become anyone. Sherlock was mildly irritated to admit that he was, as the newspapers dubbed him, a human chameleon. The assignation tonight was the only chance anyone was going to have, the one tip of his hand, a rare dangerous exposure of his hubris.

 

Another wave came over him and he perceived himself floating higher. The undulation of the water beneath him as the wave came in caused his leg to twist and Sherlock cried out with the shock of the pain. The cave cried out back to him.

 

“I’m going to die here?” he asked the cavern.

 

The only answer was a slosh of water against the walls.


	10. Chapter 10

“How did we miss this?” asked Lestrade as John trained his torch in the long grass where a small opening led into the ground. They had gone past the hole in the fence and down among the grass to the place where they now stood. Blocked by a massive rock, the entrance would have never garnered notice by land or by sea unless someone knew where it was. As it had been accessed earlier in the day by at least one person, the grasses had been bent here and there, guiding them to the opening, the disturbance in the grass pointing to the existence of the aperture beyond the boulder.

 

“’You see, but you do not observe’, I believe is the phrase,” said John as he pushed the tall grasses aside and moved into the small space.

 

“Oh, shut it,” grumbled the detective inspector as he followed Watson into the tunnel.

 

As soon as they were past the half-blocked entrance, the space opened up to four solid walls carved into the stone foundation beneath the castle ruins into which the men could manage to stand at their full height but could not manage to stand should-to-shoulder, the passage being too narrow. Lestrade and John passed their torches all over the space and noted footprints in the dirt floor.   


“Three sets in, only one out,” remarked Lestrade.

 

“I think that’s one’s Sherlock’s,” said John, pointing out one of the three treads heading into the tunnel. They ran their torches down the corridor. The light disappeared, swallowed by the darkness.

 

“Leads right back to the castle keep,” said Lestrade. “How in hell did we miss this?”

 

“Stop dwelling,” said John. “Let’s go.”

 

They moved in silence until they reached a set of steep stone steps. “Now where does this lead?” asked John to the darkness around them.

 

They climbed carefully, the stairs being dangerous not only because of their narrow, steep, and decidedly non-Euclidean design, but because the steps themselves were caved in and worn with use throughout the centuries.

 

When they reached the top, they were in a space that was untainted by garbage or graffiti. The floor and walls were of stone and there was no roof, but clearly, it was part of the main castle, but on a floor unattainable by the average tourist. There was a doorway opposite them and another staircase downward. Their torches fell on this first and Lestrade swept his to the right, John’s to the left.

 

“Blood,” said John.

 

The red on the wall was caked and mostly dry. Lestrade touched it with a fingertip. “Only a few hours old,” he said.

 

There was a knot in John’s stomach. It began when he had gotten home and not found Sherlock, only his text on his phone. He had managed to ignore the knot as it build up and build up for the entire day. Now it was six times the size it was a moment ago.

 

Lestrade ventured forth to investigate the corner. It contained an alcove, small enough to hide the crumpled body of the woman Lestrade now stared down at. “Dead body,” he said flatly. “Female. Caucasian. Mid-to-late twenties, I’d say.”

 

John joined him. “Catherine Bigalow. We thought her long gone. Off for the continent. Or America.”

 

“Well, she’s long gone now,” said Lestrade. He took his phone out of his pocket and John stilled his hand.

 

“She’s not going anywhere and there’s still Sherlock to find. His footprints didn’t come out of the tunnel,” said John.

 

Lestrade nodded and they searched the rest of the space. A gigantic metal ring was attached to a large stone in the floor, a small divot carved to accommodate its space. John stood and looked at it and the floor surrounding it.

 

“Look at this. It was moved recently. Look at the scrapes on the floor,” said John.

 

“And there’s more blood in this room,” said Lestrade as he strode around the room, stepping carefully around his findings. “Bits of it here and there. Drops. Nothing like where Bigalow lay.”

 

But John had barely heard him. His own thoughts were crowding his brain. “How in hell did any one person lift this bastard of a rock?” He bent down and pulled at the ring. The metal came up easily into his hand, which made him believe that he wasn’t imagining its recent use, but as he pulled, he couldn’t budge the stone. He looked at Lestrade, who had moved to the opposite doorway and had his torch trained down the steps.

 

“Hey John, I think this leads back to the other room where the stairs are all blocked off, but I can’t be su-“

 

“Do you have any rope in your car?” John asked him.

 

Lestrade turned to see John standing on the massive center stone and looking up at a gigantic solid wood beam measuring several inches square and placed into the grooves left in the stone for the original roof beam that must have been there centuries ago. Dangling from the center of it, directly over the ring and about ten feet above their heads, was a very modern-looking, and heavy-duty pulley.

 

“He planned this,” said Lestrade, disgusted. “This was a fucking trap and Sherlock walked right into it.”

 

“Sherlock never walks into traps he doesn’t know are there,” said John.

 

John was fully alarmed now. Things were moving too slowly. Sherlock was in trouble and possibly injured and he had to know what happened to him. Panic caused him to wonder if he noticed whether the footprints heading out of the tunnel were deeper impressed into the dirt or not. If they were, Barnum could’ve been carrying an unconscious Sherlock back out. He couldn’t recall. He didn’t notice. He wasn’t observing. God fucking damn it.

 

“Rope?” asked Lestrade, bringing him out of his thoughts. “Yeah, I’ve got some rope in the car.”

 

“Good,” said John and as Lestrade disappeared down the stairs, he stared out at the moonlit sea through a small windowless opening and tried to tamp down his rising panic.


	11. Chapter 11

He choked seawater and came back to himself. Flicking wet hair out of his face he urged himself to think of something that would keep him awake.

 

Slowly he began to recite aloud: “One. “H” Hydrogen. One point zero zero eight. Two. “H” “e” Helium. Four point zero zero two six.”

 

He got to “Eight “O” Oxygen. Fifteen point nine nine nine” before losing the plot. He let out a scream at his own brain. He could hear John inside himself: _This would have been easier with two, you know._

 

But John hadn’t been there.

 

It had been a silly disagreement. Sherlock couldn’t even remember what originally caused it. It had been deleted. He was sure that John could have remembered. His brain would hang on to such trivialities.

 

He did recall calling John ‘dim-witted’. And there was something about ‘useless’ and perhaps he had said ‘simpleton’ but perhaps he had just thought that last one.

 

“So, I didn’t delete it all,” he said to the cave. He chuckled mirthlessly. “Funny that.”

 

But it was true. John hadn’t been very helpful. He had just followed him around and watched him think. Sherlock may as well have carried a goldfish in a bowl around the streets of London with him for all the help he had given him. It was hateful, that staring. He had had enough of it. It was expectant. It was practically demanding. Was it any wonder he had lost his temper and pursued the criminal alone? After all, John had left first.

 

Of course, John had argued that the accomplice had slipped from grasp despite Sherlock’s vast intellect and deductive powers. It had been too much of an insult and his wounded pride had lashed out at the most convenient person: John. And John may have hit upon something, if he were honest, but still…

 

The point was, Sherlock hadn’t meant what he had said back to him. But John, equally frustrated, had managed to lose his temper, had growled something under his breath, and had left 221B with a slam of the front door. That had been that. That was also the last time they had spoken to one another.

 

Sherlock’s throat caught with despair. He shouldn’t have done this alone. He should have waited for John to cool off or gone after him and apologized. He should have TRIED. He and John had made a promise to one another months before this: that they would always do things together. Especially if he knew it was a trap. And he had texted John, but he hadn’t apologized. He had texted and left for the coast and expected John to just follow like he always had. Fool. Stupid fool. Why was he so awful at relating to human beings? After all, they’re the ones that committed all the crimes he was so busy uncovering. Why couldn’t he find the will to understand the human condition? Why were the puzzles and the games more interesting than the players?

 

Sherlock’s head remained above the rolling waterline, throbbing and painful, but the bleeding seemed to have stopped. But the blood he had managed to lose, plus the sheer exhaustion of fighting each and every wave that had been coming through had taken its toll. Every now and again he would sink, the cold water seeping into his lungs, and he would thrash violently back to wakefulness, his biology struggling to survive.

 

He knew that he should be dead by now. By all rights, he should have succumbed to the cold lack of the water, but still his lungs fought for air, his heart beat a tattoo against death’s call, and his brain searched for something to set itself upon.

 

“Rhenium. S-s-seventy-five. “R” “e”. One eighty-s-six point t-twenty-one.”

 

The water level was such that it no longer crashed over his head but caused his entire body to float. Yet the cave continued to fill. He rode the ebb and flow of it, drifting ever more each erect, anchored only by his pinned foot.

 

If he had had the energy, he would have dived down and untied his shoe. It may not have caused him opportunity to leave the cave, frozen and weak as he was, but if the foot were released, he would have a better chance of floating on the surface of the water, rather than hoping that the incoming tide would head out before he was drowned.

 

But the fact of the matter was: he didn’t have the strength. He didn’t have the energy for anything but treading water with frozen hands and a slowly freezing body, and the desire to live long enough to apologize to John the way he should have and to see his face again.

 

He cleared his throat and continued: “Osmium. Seventy-s-six. “O” “s”. One n-nine zero p-point twenty-three…”


	12. Chapter 12

“One, two, THREE!” shouted John as they pulled at the rope they had secured to the ring and looped through the pulley. The gigantic stone shifted well under their applied weight and rose higher by inches whenever they renewed their efforts. John wondered at the singular strength of David Barnum. He had to have been a body builder or something to shift this alone. Or perhaps Catherine had helped him before he killed her? Who knew?

 

“The pulley seems to be holding,” Lestrade said to John, “so on the next one, we’ll see how high we can get it. We’ll try to tie it off on the bars that are across the window behind us.

 

“Got it,” said John, grunting a bit with the effort. “Ready? One, two, THREE!”

 

The stone came up even higher. It was almost high enough to allow a thin adult to pass into the opening. They gave another great heave and the rock was at a generous enough angle to allow passage for either of them. Panting with the effort, the two men managed to tie off the rope on the bars behind them and they watched the rope and pulley a moment to see if the rope would hold. When it did, they caught each other’s eye and gave a grin. The got up their torches again and peered into the opening.

 

They could hear and smell water. The reflection from their torchlight indicated that about fifty feet down there was certainly a lot of it moving about. John caught something pale and white among the inky black.

 

“Sherlock!” he cried, his adrenaline coursing through his veins. “Sherlock! Can you hear me?! SHERLOCK!” He began to strip himself of his coat and his heavy jumper. He placed his watch and his phone on them and took up his torch again, thanking the maker above that it was waterproof and durable.

 

As he did so, Lestrade was peppering him with questions and observations: “I don’t think he can hear us. Does he look hurt? Bleeding or anything? I can’t see fuck all. That water’s freezing, mate. And it’s a long way down. You’re not seriously thinking of jumping in, are you?”

 

“He’s unresponsive,” said John. “Lord knows how long he’s been down there. Shit, Greg. Call your men. Get them here. I’ll go down and evaluate him. Hold his head above water. Keep him alive until rescue comes.”

 

“Right,” said Lestrade. “But we’re lowering you down. No telling what’s under that water or how deep or shallow it is. Help me shift this rock up and away, then we’ll get the rope around you and lower you using the pulley.” He stopped and chuckled. “Never thought I’d be grateful to a bad guy for making a rescue easier.”

 

“Hurry,” said John. “If hypothermia’s set in, we haven’t got much time.”


	13. Chapter 13

As John moved behind Sherlock to cradle his head above water, Sherlock relaxed into his warmth, despite the cold water surrounding them.

 

“John,” he said. “You found me.”

 

“Yeah, I found you, you stark-raving idiot,” said John. “You fool. You preposterous madman. What in hell did you think you were doing, coming here on your own?”

 

“It’s good to see you too,” said Sherlock. John’s right arm was around his chest, his head rested upon John’s good shoulder. John’s warm breath was on his left ear. Sherlock turned his head and said, “Shoe.”

 

“What?” When Sherlock didn’t respond right away, he rubbed his knuckles on Sherlock’s breastbone. Sherlock came awake with a small grunt. “What’s that about a shoe?”

 

“What? Oh yes. My shoe. Y-you have to untie m-my right shoe. My leg’s broken. I c-can’t feel my limbs anymore s-so there’s no pain, really, but my shoe has me anchored. D-damn tide keeps drifting me about and wiggling the b-bone inside my leg. I’d have passed out by now if it weren’t n-numb as fuck.”

 

“Your shoe. Right,” said John, weighing the options of Lestrade’s team response time and the effort it would take to dive down and untie the shoe himself. John would have chosen the latter, it being the quicker choice, but for Sherlock’s questionable consciousness.

 

“G-go, John,” said Sherlock, reading his thoughts as always, “I promise not to d-drown while you’re away.”

 

“Yeah, we’re going to have a long LONG chat about promises when we get back to our lives,” he said, and with a gulp of air, he pushed himself down and followed Sherlock’s bodyline to the end of his right leg. He slid up Sherlock’s trouser leg to see the damage and in the grey underwater light from his torch he could see that the bone had not come through the skin but was threatening to. The entire area was swollen, and his skin was a mottled purple, red and yellow combination. He untied the shoe and Sherlock drifted free.

 

John broke the surface right behind Sherlock and cradled him once again. “All set,” said John. “We just have to wait for rescue. Lestrade’s with me. His team is on the way. We’ll get out of here.”

 

“How’s the l-leg?” asked Sherlock.

 

“I’ve seen worse, “said John. ‘You’ll need surgery and rest. It’ll be painful as hell for you, but you’re tough. You’ll be fine.”

 

A silence fell about them as they listened to the lapping of the water of the cave walls. John’s torch was casting a stark beam against one of them as he gripped it in his left hand. The only other light was what little moonlight was coming through the open flooring above them. It reminded John, weirdly, of a sensory deprivation tank.

 

“I owe you an ap-pology,” Sherlock said.

 

“You owe me a lot of fucking apologies, truth be told, but which is this one for?”

 

“This one’s for c-calling you ‘dim’. I didn’t mean it. It was s-spoken in anger. And-- and for b-breaking my earlier p-promise.”

 

“Sherlock,” said John, trying not to sigh or lose his grip on the man. “I wasn’t angry that you called me dim. As a matter of fact, I wasn’t too surprised that you were angry and lashed out a bit. No. I left the flat because you acted like you didn’t need me to solve your case. And, usually, you’re right. You’re damn good at what you do, with or without me. I just thought—” and here he couldn’t finish. He didn’t know what he thought. He was just tired and hurt and just as confused as ever at that point.

 

“You thought what?” asked Sherlock.

 

“I don’t know. I mean… I just thought that you appreciated me more, I suppose.”

 

“Of c-course, I appreciate you. Dear God, man. I don’t j-just appreciate you. I q-quite literally owe my life to you. In m-more ways and on m-more levels than I care to enumerate. But if you’re looking for examples—” and he waved his numb hand above the water gesturing to the whole cave.

 

John had to chuckle at that. “Charming bastard, even at the brink, aren’t you?”

 

“Thank you, John,” said Sherlock. His left hand found the side of John’s face and pulled him into a soft kiss. Elated and relieved that this silly argument could be put aside for now, John nuzzled his face into Sherlock’s wet curls and tried not to drown the both of them before help could arrive.


	14. Chapter 14

**NINE WEEKS LATER**

 

“You have to keep the boot on for three more weeks, Sherlock!” said John. He had left it in the back of his wardrobe this time. John held it up as he marched into the kitchen.

 

“I thought you said that the wound needs to air out?” said Sherlock as he peered through his microscope at the kitchen table. He wore his blue dressing gown and some boxers and little else. What he was supposed to be wearing was the support boot the surgeon’s office gave him. It was a gigantic bulky black affair with steel supports and lots of wide Velcro straps. It itched and was too warm and it weighed too much, and Sherlock hated it.

 

“It did,” he said, “six weeks ago when your surgery sutures were still healing. Now that’s all done, and your leg is on the mend, it still needs support, so you are going to wear this boot if I have to knock you out in order to strap it on you myself.”

 

Sherlock’s bright eyes flickered up once quickly to take in John’s countenance that brooked no argument. Sherlock grunted and held out his right leg from the stool. John stood gobsmacked for a moment. Eventually he sighed and, shaking his head incredulously, he placed the boot properly on Sherlock’s weaker leg.

 

“Right, I’m not your actual doctor, you know. And you are a grown man. You are meant to be responsible.” John pulled the straps across and secured the thick Velcro with no small difficulty.

 

Sherlock hummed distractedly.

 

John stood still a moment. What could he say that Sherlock would pay attention to? What words could he use to change the bad habits of a badly-behaved overgrown child? And then it hit him: not words, deeds. He slid his hand to the inside of Sherlock’s thigh. “What did I just say to you?”

 

Sherlock pulled his head away and stared at John’s hand. His breath had hitched at the touch, he noticed. He turned to John. “Honestly, I have no idea.”

 

“But you are paying attention now?”

 

“Yes, John.”

 

The hand slid higher. Sherlock’s breath stuttered again. It was then he realized that between their last argument, the whole debacle with the murderous duo and his subsequent time spent in the cave, the following surgery and the recovery that was taking entirely too long for his liking, they hadn’t actually touched each other in months. Quickly, he did the calculations: five months and two days. Holy hell.

 

“You need to be responsible for your own healthcare, Sherlock.” John massaged the muscle beneath his hand. The flesh there was so warm and distracting. “Now what did I just say? Repeat it?”

 

“Responsible for my healthcare,” said Sherlock. He swallowed hard. He couldn’t look away from John’s stare.

 

John saw Sherlock’s eyes glaze over slightly. This was good. And he could feel himself getting hard. “I tell you what,” said John, “why don’t we work on a reward basis? Every time I see you wearing your boot as you should, propping it up, doing your exercises three times a day… why don’t I reward you for that? Reinforce positive behavior?”

 

“Because I’m not a canine,” said Sherlock, rankling slightly at his perceived condescension in the conversation.

 

“But oh… the treats I could give you, Sherlock.” John smiled at the metaphor, knowing it would annoy Sherlock to no end. He slid his hand over Sherlock’s clothed balls and massaged them.

 

John was rewarded with an unblinking stare from Sherlock, his lips open, mouth panting. “I- I supposed I could be per-persuaded,” Sherlock managed eventually.

 

“Good,” said John and he withdrew his hand and walked away back to their bedroom.

 

Sherlock blinked. “Am I meant to follow you?” Sherlock called after him.

 

“No.”

 

“But-?”

 

“You haven’t earned it yet, have you?”

 

John closed the bedroom door behind him, leaned against it, and palmed his cock over his trousers. Fuck. It had been ages since he saw that kind of arousal in Sherlock’s eyes and he wanted more of it.

 

He licked his palm and pushed his hand under his clothing, grabbing his manhood and thrusting his hips into his fist. The hot buildup came quickly, and John rode it to completion, cum spreading into the material and over his hand. He smoothed the sticky warm wetness over his cock and balls, enjoying the feel of the fluid against him. Eventually, he stilled and leaned against the door, his breath slowing, his heartbeat becoming more regulated.

 

“Oh Sherlock,” he whispered to the room. “How I’ve missed you.”


	15. Chapter 15

The next day, Sherlock wore his boot, did his exercises, and complained as little as he felt it was possible. That evening, he watched John over the top of his phone. He was absorbed in a medical journal reading an article on the latest drug that had come on the market for arthritis. Sherlock was fairly certain that even though John seemed entirely focused on the article, John could feel him from across the room ready to come out of his skin.

 

As the minutes ticked by, he could see that his hypothesis was incorrect.

 

The memory of John’s warm hand on his thigh and caressing his testes was causing him to salivate in an alarming manner. He swallowed hard and glanced up at him again. No movement. No wait – a page turn. Jesus, how long was this report?

 

Sherlock cleared his throat. John never moved toward him or acknowledged his agitation, his dark blue eyes hypnotically gliding back and forth taking in the information. Sherlock wanted his eyes on him. He wanted to stand up dramatically and command John’s attention. He wanted to strip naked and prop his boot up between John’s legs, triumphantly claiming his reward for being so damned tolerant.  His mind was coming apart at the seams. Why wouldn’t John look at him and tell him he had been so very good and so very patient and wasn’t he a strong man to put up with such an indignity as this horrid boot that was in no way necessary to his everyday life and only created difficulty in having to swing it around with every step he took and so he definitely deserved at the very least an eentsy-weentsy blow job, god-fucking-damn it.

 

He threw down his phone into some papers on the floor in disgust, hauled himself up and walk-stomped off to his room. He took the boot off, trying not to focus on the scar from his surgery, pink against his skin, and laid down on the duvet. The air of the room was cool against the skin previously trapped by the boot and he relished the freeing feeling of it.

 

Eyes closed, he took a slow deep breath and thought again of John’s offer of reward if he were good, analyzing it for any loopholes. He wasn’t aware of any and it infuriated him. The terms were too simple: wear the boot, receive sexual favors. The rest was too ambiguous and open to interpretation and, as the creator of the terms, Sherlock assumed that John could manipulate them at will. There was no telling how his interpretation would answer for, say, the time between wearing the boot and receiving the reward. Was there a time established? No. John made it sound as though it would be made nightly, but he said no such thing. Sherlock peered through his memory searching for the specific words, but he couldn’t recall. The feeling of John’s hand on his scrotum was too vivid for him to picture his words. Sherlock saw his mouth moving. He saw the intent in John’s eyes. And the warmth of his caress… It was far too distracting to remember the exact words.

 

“Damn,” he muttered to himself and rolled over on the bed. “Damn you, John Watson.”

 

“What’s that?” asked John. The creak of the bedroom door followed shortly after and Sherlock knew John was standing there just behind him, but he was too angry to turn around.

 

“Had enough of that boot for one day, have you?” John said. He was coming around the bottom of the bed, presumably to make eye contact with him. As John gained the other side, Sherlock turned again to show him his back. He felt the bed move and squeak as John settled in behind him. “You should have had enough by now. You’ve done very well. Exercises…”

 

Sherlock closed his eyes as he felt the warmth of John’s length behind him, John’s arm slipping beneath his neck and wrapping around his chest.

 

“Elevating it properly…” continued John, his breath warm on Sherlock’s ear, his nose in his curls. John’s other hand moved along Sherlock’s hip, up his side, and along his belly. Sherlock’s breath went shallow as John inched toward his cock.

 

“…and wearing the boot all day long…” said John. A small kiss was placed to the shell of Sherlock’s ear and a shiver went down his spine.

 

“Y-yes, John. I h-have tried,” said Sherlock. His hands gripped the bedclothes and the edge of the mattress.

 

“Mmmm…” John hummed into the nape of his neck. “You really have been so very good.”

 

John’s hand explored his boxers and the member underneath through the material. Sherlock swallowed hard and began to pant as his cock filled against John’s touch. “Thank you, John,” Sherlock whispered. And he meant it. He had almost forgotten what John’s hand on his cock felt like and he pushed back into John’s warmth as the doctor’s hand smoothed over his testicles. “I’ve been trying to be so good.”

 

“Yes, you have, Sherlock,” said John. Teeth nibbled at his ear.

 

“More,” Sherlock whispered. “Please. More.” Sherlock’s knuckles whitened as his grip tightened on the bedsheets.

 

A single finger found the flesh beneath the cloth and ran along Sherlock’s length, featherlight and frustrating. Sherlock found it difficult to remember to breathe. He had to use almost all of his powers of concentration in order to keep a steady rhythm in his lungs. His excitement would culminate in his release entirely too quickly if he continued on like this.

 

Turning his head to voice his concern, John covered his mouth with his own before a word could be uttered. The taste of warm wine and strawberries hit him and in the next second, he found himself overwhelmed with a desire to roll John over and kiss him everywhere. In the back of his mind he mentally kicked himself for not fornicating more frequently.

 

The pressure was building in his belly, a low burning heat that was rising far too quickly. John had moved to snake his hand beneath the waistband and was now gently caressing his cock, fingers idly probing the frenulum between languid strokes, attempting to draw out the burn and make it last, but it was having the opposite effect; the burn was becoming a conflagration.

 

 _Too much too much too much_ , thought Sherlock desperately, but at the same time he didn’t want John to stop. It was a distressing predicament. John’s hand on his cock, John’s tongue on his, and the warmth of his body against the back of him all combined to drive him over the edge at breakneck speed.

 

“John, I -“ Sherlock began again, his breath hitching. “I’m going to- going to -“ John’s mouth was on his again and Sherlock squirmed and moaned. His hand shot to cover John’s and in a pathetic whisper he begged: “Please.”

 

John stilled then moved away. Glorious euphoria spread throughout Sherlock’s body and slowly faded off. John was no longer kissing him but watching him, waiting for the climax to subside. “Easy now,” said John softly. “Easy, Sherlock. That’s it.” Small kisses fell on Sherlock’s neck and jaw. “Shhh… easy.”

 

“We haven’t, uh, in a while, and um…” Sherlock explained, half embarrassed at his obviously narrowly-escaped premature ejaculation. He met John’s eyes. He was smiling gently at him.

 

“I know. It’s been bleeding ages. I missed you,” said John. He planted a kiss to his cheek. “Are you ready for more?”

 

“Dear God, yes.”

 

“On your back, you beautiful boy.”

 

Sherlock obeyed and instead of John’s tender attentions paid with his hands, he sighed with satisfaction at the feel of John’s mouth on his cock. One hand cupping his balls, the other playing with his nipple, John’s lips and tongue moved over him in a hot sucking rhythm that was better than solving any nebulous kidnap and murder plot.

 

But the fire was back. His cock, half limp at first, was filled in an instant, the throbbing of it insistent. Sherlock’s hands found the back of John’s head and caressed him, willing himself not to explode too quickly or jerk his hips up toward him too hungrily. It came back to him instantly and he mentally chided himself for not seizing upon it sooner.

 

In his head, he began as he did in the cave all those weeks ago:

 

“One. “H” Hydrogen. One point zero zero eight. Two. “H” “e” Helium. Four point zero zero two six….”

 

But it soon became plain that the needs of his body would not be denied. Minutes later, despite his attempts at distracting himself, he found himself saddled with the same dilemma: burst early or warn John off.

 

The deliciousness of coming down from an impending orgasm was a tempting option, blessed with both the dark side of not feeling completely satiated and the light side of making that moment of ecstasy linger. As his hips fought against his will to rise and thrust himself deeper into the warm wet of John’s mouth, he stuttered again: “J-John. Please, John.”

 

John’s mouth came off his cock and he murmured: “Had enough? Want to ride this one out too?” His lips brushed his cock as these words emerged and all Sherlock could do was whimper in defeat. The crest of the orgasm wasn’t quite reached, but he slid down from the precipice all the same, sweat coating his body, his breath coming in a deep, even, purposeful rhythm.

 

“If you want to come, you should just say so,” said John. “Or I could keep bringing you to the brink and moving away again. Orgasm denial is said to be quite the trip.”

 

“M-maybe if you want to switch, I could-“ began Sherlock but John stopped him with a kiss that made his head spin. His warm tongue pressed into Sherlock’s mouth, familiar and yet completely foreign. How many times had John kissed him like this? A hundred? A thousand? Five thousand? And yet, somehow, there was always the taste of the first time. Sherlock marveled at that revelation. John really was amazing.

 

“You’re not switching with me at all,” said John, “If anything, you’re doing the least amount of work here. This is meant to be a reward,” and here he began stroking his cock again, “so just relax and enjoy it.” John nuzzled close to Sherlock’s ear. “You taste brilliant, by the way.” John’s tongue wormed its wet way into Sherlock’s ear. John knew that this was a sure-fire way to arouse him and helplessly Sherlock’s hands moved to John’s chest, tugging at his clothes, pushing away his shirt and attempting to invade his trousers. John pulled away.

 

“Sherlock? What did I just say?” John frowned at him. “You know, you have the most terrible habit of not listening to me.”

 

“Please, John. Need to touch you too.” As if to emphasize his point, Sherlock pulled John into a passionate kiss with one hand to the back of John’s head. His other hand busied itself with the previous activity. John didn’t stop him. Sherlock soon had both his hands working at John’s belt and flies until John’s manhood was freed and Sherlock could stroke him at liberty.

 

“Which one of us will come first, I wonder?” asked John.

 

“Clearly, you’ve worked me into a frenzy. It’s only been my willpower and intellect that have saved me from premature ejaculation.”

 

John pulled back and stared at him. “Your willpower?” he asked, incredulously. “Your intellect? What about all the “please, John” you’ve been handing me? Begging me to stop before you came too quickly?”

 

“Well, that was…”

 

“Yes?”

 

Sherlock was at a loss. “Can we just keep kissing?”

 

A smile spread across John’s face. “You pillock.” He leaned in and kissed him, stroking him off in rhythm to his tongue lapping into Sherlock’s mouth. John reached back toward his nightstand and pulled out some lubricant, slicking his hand up before stroking Sherlock properly.

 

Without missing a beat, Sherlock knew what to do. Beginning where he left off previously, he mentally ticked off the next five elements without too much trouble. But then, John reached for his far hip and pulled him onto his side to face him. Their cocks touched and John grabbed them both in one hand. The lubricant spread between both of them, allowing for a delicious slick sliding. John’s leg rested on Sherlock’s thigh and they ground into each other, the only sound the wet frottage, the movement of the bedclothes beneath them, and the soft give and take of grunts and hitched cries shared between them.

 

“Oh, Jesus, Sherlock,” moaned John. “It’s just been ages, hasn’t it?”

 

“Approximately five months, three days, and one hour.”

 

“But who’s counting?” smiled John. He kissed him softly again, his hand gliding against them both, moving their cocks around each other and bringing them both new sensations within the steady rhythm. “God, almost six months. Remind me to never let our sex life to get that far out of hand, will you?”

 

“Is that a pun?” asked Sherlock and they smiled at each other.

 

“Not meant to be,” said John. “But I mean it. Don’t ever let us get so far gone that neither of us can recall the last time we were naked in bed together.”

 

“Mmm… I will endeavor to do my best,” murmured Sherlock. His eyes were closing, his head was cocking back, and his breath was growing shallow again. John kissed him softly.

 

John said: “Sherlock?”

 

“Mmm?”

 

“Sherlock, I want you to come this time.”

 

“Uh…” Sherlock swallowed hard.

 

“Sherlock?”

 

“Yes…. Yes John.”

 

“Will you come for me?”

 

Sherlock was panting now. “For you. With you. All over you. Yes. Yes please, John.”

 

John could feel the pressure in his own cock now. He wasn’t sure that he wasn’t going to come right along with Sherlock. It had been donkey’s since he’d seen him like this: eyes closed, Adam’s apple exposed and bobbing with every swallow, cheeks flushed pink, sweat matting the baby hair of his fringe. Dear God in Heaven, he was glorious.

 

Sherlock came first. The build came slowly, but Sherlock’s breath stuttered as it always did just seconds before his release. John lived for that sound. He had almost forgotten how completely debauched and erotic it was. Sherlock’s hips drove toward him and cum spattered between them both, thick and white. The sight of it caused John to careen toward release. He thrust his own hips into his hand, against Sherlock’s spent cock and, almost at the last second, pushed Sherlock onto his back and straddled him, his cum issuing from him and all over Sherlock’s belly and chest. He watched it spurt forth and then saw Sherlock’s hands smooth it into his skin, mixing both of their cum together and further along his body, eventually gliding it over his nipples and up to his neck, over his collarbones and back down along his belly.

 

Sherlock’s eyes were half-drowsy with sex-drunkenness. “Thank you, John. That was beyond brilliant.”

 

John leaned down and kissed him. “I’m glad you’re in a good mood now. I want to talk to you about something I’ve been putting off now for a few months.”

 

“Hmm?”

 

“Sherlock, wake up. Listen to me. This is important to me.”

 

The detective’s eyes were on his in an instant. “You’re still angry about the Barnum case, aren’t you? The obvious trap, me running off without you, my subsequent injuries, et cetera?”

 

“Yes. Yes, that’s exactly what I’m still upset about. And what you’re haven’t been contrite enough about. I know we had a discussion in the cave. I know we touched upon some things

that were happening between us then, but in these past weeks, watching you recover from an injury you didn’t even need to suffer from… it’s been on my mind again.

 

“Jesus, Sherlock, I knew you were a risk-taker from the moment I met you. Hell, you made it obvious! But I didn’t realize that after all these years of living and working together, of openly loving each other, that you still thought you could lone wolf your way through that case! You can’t do that anymore. Not ever. More to the point, you don’t have to!

 

“Listen, I may not be a genius detective, but what I am is – at the very least -- practical assistance for you. And a loyal friend. And someone who loves you deeply. And to watch you abandon all of that in the name of, what? Pride? It’s hurtful and it’s hateful and… it’s bloody infuriating and disrespectful to all that we have, all that we’ve built together!

 

“I love you, you mad bastard! I love you and you are NOT running off into the darkness without me ever again! Do you hear? You are never to walk into the darkness without me.” John stared at him hard.

 

Sherlock blinked. “Yes, John. If you’re quite through, I was about to say that you needn’t worry about me. And besides, I did text you. It’s not as if you were totally clueless as to where to find me.”

 

“Sherlock-” John started. He caught himself about to scream and stopped. Closing his eyes and gathering his patience, he tried again: “Sherlock. That’s not the point. The point is: never again. I know we’ve made promises to each other before, but this time I mean it. And I hope to God you do too.”

 

“John, I-“ began Sherlock. “I never want you to worry about me. I cannot promise that this job will always mean that we will be together-“

 

“Fine,” said John and he moved to get out of bed.

 

“Wait. Where are you going?”

 

“To get a flannel,” said John. “We need to get cleaned up and get some rest. Both of us.” Without another word, he padded off to the bathroom. After cleaning himself up, he returned to Sherlock with a warm, wet flannel. Sherlock was sound asleep. John watched him from the doorway for a few long moments before turning and closing the door behind him. Sherlock could bathe in the morning. For now, John thought, a kip on the couch wouldn’t kill him.


	16. Chapter 16

The next day, Lestrade came to them with a problem. The problem’s name was Tabitha Simpson, born Tabitha Hughes. She had been missing for 4 weeks. Her husband Archie, an investment banker, was suspected of killing her, but since they didn’t have anything but a missing person’s report filed by the woman’s sister, there was nothing to hold him for. “No body, no crime,” said Lestrade, sighing and sitting heavily on their couch.

 

“Does he have insurance on her?” asked Sherlock.

 

“Of course,” said Lestrade, “but he hasn’t had her declared dead. So, there’s nothing for him to collect.”

 

“Why didn’t he file the missing person’s report?” asked John.

 

“He says it’s because he was embarrassed,” said Lestrade. “They had had an argument and she packed a bag and stormed off.”

 

“What was the argument about?” asked Sherlock.

 

“He says she was complaining about how bored she was in her life, with their marriage, with him,” said Lestrade. His face took on a deeper sadness and John guessed he was thinking of his own marriage which had collapsed under similar circumstances.

 

“Bored?” asked Sherlock. “She was bored? How? She was no doubt wealthy and could take herself off to anywhere to stave off boredom. What had she to complain about?”

 

Before Lestrade could respond, John beat him to it: “Some people are never satisfied, Sherlock. They can’t all be in relationships with mad detectives.”

 

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him. “Perhaps not.”

 

“The thing is, the sister seems to think that he might have become violent with her during that last fight,” said Lestrade. “But there’s no evidence of foul play, violence in the house, et cetera. Plus, it’s been four weeks. He’s been in that house this whole time. If there were any obvious evidence, it’s gone now.”

 

“And that would be the key word: obvious,” said Sherlock.

 

“And there’s no sign of her? No credit card activity, bank activity?” asked John.

 

“We’ve checked,” said Lestrade. “There’s nothing.”

 

“I need to see this husband. And I need to get in his house,” said Sherlock, “preferably at the same time.”

 

“You’ll look into it then?” asked Lestrade.

 

Sherlock stood and then looked down. “Yes. And I suspect that there won’t be much running around involved, so my doctor won’t be too upset.” Here he looked at John, pointedly.

 

“Ha. Ha,” said John.


	17. Chapter 17

Archie Simpson was as non-descript a person as one could imagine. He was possessed of a plain brown hair cut in a plain fashion, a plain white male face with no discerning features, plain clothes covering an average body with average height and weight. Indeed, if John had passed him in the street, he wouldn’t have noticed him at all.

 

“When was the last time you saw your wife?”

 

Sherlock was leaving him to ask all the questions while his clever eyes roved all around Mr. and Mrs. Simpson’s average home. John noticed idly that he was sniffing at an ashtray just behind Archie as they sat in the sitting room. He pulled away from it just as Archie turned to investigate.

 

John cleared his throat. “I know you’ve answered all these questions already, but we’re not the police. We’ve just come to help. Please, sir. If you would indulge us.”

 

As Archie answered, Sherlock moved to the grate of the fireplace. He stooped to investigate the low mantel, but John could see his eyes focusing on something he couldn’t see. John was itching to know what it was.

 

Sherlock straightened and moved to the far wall to examine photographs of the couple and their extended family members.

 

“…and she just bolted. It was all so sudden. She took the car and left. The police said they recovered the car abandoned, but there was no sign of her,” said Archie.

 

“And the police have told us that you didn’t report her after all this time because…?” asked John.

 

Archie hung his head. “I was ashamed.” His hand covered his face. “She was bored with me. Done with our marriage. It was humiliating.”

 

“So, she didn’t accuse you of cheating on her with her sister?” asked Sherlock.

 

“What?” Archie’s face read confusion and what John thought was slight alarm.

 

Sherlock spun to face him. “You cheated on her. And have been cheating for some time. With her elder sister. Not the younger one that reported her missing, but the elder one who was married and is now divorced and on the prowl.”

 

“How did-?” began Archie, but he caught himself. “Don’t be absurd! I could never cheat on Tabby! She was my wife!”

 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Oh, spare me. She’s all over this house.”

 

“What do you mean?” asked Archie. John was curious too.

 

“Let’s just use one obvious example, shall we? Observe: these pictures. The one in which you three are together, you, Tabitha, and her sister…?”

 

“Victoria,” Archie supplied.

 

“When you three are together, your body language gives it away. You’ve been seeing each other for some years now. In this one, obviously taken two years ago at your wife’s 37th birthday as indicated by the cake. As your wife is blowing out her candles – one need only look quite carefully as it’s almost obscured -- she’s actually holding your hand right behind her!”

 

Archie’s mouth bobbed open and shut like a landed mackerel. “Vicki was… fragile… after the divorce…”

 

“So, your wife didn’t twig to the two of you having this affair? And you didn’t become angry with her?”

 

“I- No… I didn’t. I- She ran! Ran off! Just took off!” he stammered.

 

“Because she had discovered your secret,” said Sherlock. “I see. Well, we needn’t trouble you further. John, I’ve seen enough.”

 

John texted Lestrade with the latest information. Sherlock said: “Ask Lestrade for the eldest sister’s address. Then have him check into her financials. See if she owns any property or storage spaces at all.”

 

“Do you think the sister…?” asked John.

 

Sherlock frowned at him. “You know better, John. I need more information if I am to deduce properly. Data, data, data. I cannot make bricks without clay.”

 

It was a matter of moments before John and Sherlock were given an address for Victoria Hughes. “I guess she’s re-taken her maiden name after the divorce,” said John.

 

Sherlock gave the cab driver the new destination and then broke out his own phone. He shot off a quick text and waited. His phone buzzed and he sent off another one.

 

“Who’s that?” asked John.

 

“Lestrade,” said Sherlock, pocketing the phone and staring out the window. John didn’t press him. He knew better. And he knew when Sherlock’s mind was spinning away.

 

Sherlock’s phone buzzed again. Sherlock read it and smiled, pocketing it again. “Well, well, well.”

 

“You are going to tell me eventually, right?” said John.

 

Sherlock turned to him sharply. “Of course. All will be revealed. If we find her at home, you will have your answers sooner than you think.”

 

“Right,” said John, “well, just so you tell me eventually.”


	18. Chapter 18

Victoria Hughes wasn’t home. In fact, it looked as though she hadn’t been home in some time. As John peeped into the mail slot built into the door, he noticed a trail of mail deliver on the floor. He held the flap open for Sherlock to see as well.

 

The detective straightened and said: “Well, then she’s with her sister.”

 

“What?”

 

“Provided she’s still alive,” said Sherlock. “If she’s not, then she’s made a run for it. Damned Lestrade. I need that information!” He pulled out his phone and to John’s amazement actually dialed a number. As they strode back to the waiting cab, Sherlock said: “Lestrade. Close all the ports of exit from the country. Flag her passport. Flag her name -- both her maiden and married names. Don’t want to take a chance.” There was a pause as Lestrade asked a question. “The sister, of course. Victoria Hughes, or whatever her married name was. Yes. Turnbull. Victoria Turnbull. Do it now. She’s either with her sister and is guilty of kidnapping and assault, or she’s a murderess on the run. Possibly both.” Another pause. “Well if you’d get me the information about her properties that I asked for ages ago, I could clear them for you and you could concentrate on closing the airports and flagging her passport.”

 

As he rang off, he turned abruptly to John. “This could be dangerous. Do you have your weapon?”

 

“No,” said John, “I thought we were just heading to interview the husband!”

 

Sherlock didn’t seem to have heard him. “If she’s a murderess, we could get police assistance. But if she’s kidnapped her sister and intends to kill her before fleeing the country…”

 

“Dear God, you think she would do something that desperate?”

 

“Depends.”

 

“On what?”

 

“On whether or not she killed her late husband.”


	19. Chapter 19

“What? She didn’t kill him. They were divorced.” John couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Surely, she hadn’t lied to her entire family about getting a divorce.

 

“We only have her lover’s word for that.”

 

John sat back in the cab and moaned in disbelief. “That’s incredible.”

 

“I suspect the sister is alive at the moment. But if Archie calls her, she answers, and he’s able to tell her that we know about their affair, Tabitha may not be long for this world.”

 

“Dear God,” said John. “And you think she’s capable of killing her own sister?”

 

“If she took the life of her late husband for financial gain, as I suspect, she will have no problem taking her sister’s life – especially if it means being able to marry and then bump off Archie. She did it all for the money. You saw the house: a prime location in Richmond. Not uber-affluent, but a nice enough property to cause one to want to keep up with the Joneses, as the Americans say.”

 

“I seriously hope Archie can’t reach her then. Tabitha never asked for any of this to happen to her,” asked John. After a moment, he asked: “Just so I have this straight: after her blow up with Archie, she drove to her sister’s house to confront her and that’s when the sister kidnapped her.”

 

“That is my suspicion, yes.” Sherlock’s phone buzzed.

 

“Right,” said John. “Poor Tabitha.”

 

“Yes,” said Sherlock, studying his phone, reading the list of properties owned by Victoria Turnbull, neé Hughes, “let’s hope we’re in time to save her life so she can divorce that twat properly.”


	20. Chapter 20

The closest property Victoria owned was a storage space in North Acton. They had no way of getting into it, but John hoped that if Tabitha were awake and alert, she would be able to make some sort of sound if they beat on the door. They never left the cab.

 

Sherlock took one look at the building and nodded in satisfaction. “Drive on to this address,” he said to the cabbie and gave him their next area of inquiry. The driver balked because it was across town. “Then take us to North Acton station. We haven’t got all day. Central line should get us there.”

 

John was too busy being horrified by the situation to discuss means of transportation. “What if she’s unconscious? What if she’s bleeding to death in there?”

 

“They’re not there.” He settled back texting away to what John could only assume was Lestrade.

 

“Yes, but-“

 

“It’s not air-cooled. It’s the dead of summer. Victoria hasn’t been home in days. If she’s spending time with her sister, she’s not suffering too. No. She’ll be somewhere air-conditioned in this heat.” Sherlock didn’t even look up at him.

 

John shook his head and marveled. He put two and two together so damn quickly.

 

The next property was across town in Bethnal Green. As they leapt from the cab, John was beginning to feel like there was a ticking clock on this. If Victoria was desperate, if she saw killing her sister as a way of shutting her up about her affair with her husband… but no. That wasn’t enough, surely? There had to be something else. He wondered if Tabitha had managed to suss out that her brother-in-law was actually her LATE brother-in-law. Perhaps that was it? It must be. How she figured out, John could only guess, but if it was true -- John’s heart went into his throat. The ticking clock in his head ticked louder. He only hoped they could get there in time.


	21. Chapter 21

The Bethnal Green Road was clogged with traffic when they emerged from the underground.  Catching a cab would be pointless, so they walked. Sherlock and John would normally run down the streets, dodging people left and right, but that damned boot was on Sherlock’s foot. John could see Sherlock’s annoyance in his face. If they had a clock to beat, if time were of the essence, John would have to ditch Sherlock and he knew it. It twisted his gut.

 

“I’m sorry, Sherlock,” said John. “This traffic is-“

 

“Hateful, yes,” said Sherlock. Sherlock was limping along as fast as he could go.

 

“And your boot-” John said.

 

“Must stay on. I know, doctor,” said Sherlock. There was especial emphasis made to that last word.

 

“Look Sherlock, we need to get there. Fast. And – well I hate to say it but -- you’re only holding us back.”

 

Sherlock stopped and stared at him. “Yes. I know. Doctor.” Clearly, he was angry.

 

“Well?” asked John. Sherlock just stood there. His aspect hadn’t changed. “Jesus, Sherlock! A woman could die! This is important!” Despite this information, which John realized was needlessly spoken aloud, as the both of them realized the consequences and what was at stake, Sherlock remained quite still. “Right,” said John, gauging that the predicament was only allowing for one clear option, “I’m sorry, Sherlock. But I’m off.” And he ran down Bethnal Green Road toward what he hoped was an alive and well Tabitha Simpson.

 

Sherlock watched him go, silently boiling. “I can’t run off headlong into danger alone – even if I text you where I am and to come prepared -- but it’s alright for you, unarmed and knowing danger is ahead? Right,” he said aloud to a slowly disappearing John. He looked down at the boot, tempted to remove it, but didn’t. He hadn’t a sock or shoe to put on in its stead. And going barefoot on the streets and sidewalks of London wasn’t advisable; tetanus shots were unpleasant.

 

He turned and hailed a cab.


	22. Chapter 22

It was three storey building along a tiny cobblestone street off the side street off the main road. Just a tad out of the way and off the beaten path enough to be able to hold someone hostage and not awaken suspicion, John thought. He noticed that the building itself contained five addresses total, the address in question, and four other homes, one of them with a for sale sign on it. The address they were looking for was number 48. It sat as the fourth door in, with the vacant home just next door, further along.

 

John stood on the front step almost unsure what to do. Should he ring the bell? Knock? And then announce himself as – what? He wasn’t the police. He decided to reconnoiter. The window was just a tad too high to peep into without looking obvious, but, as the opposite side of the street was a vacant lot with a chain-link fence around it, he tried anyway. His quick jumping glance revealed a sitting room, fully furnished, but with no other signs of recent life. The mail slot wasn’t helpful. No sign of mail at all. And there was no sound coming from the flat either.

 

John stepped back and looked at the building again. The vacant house had all curtains and blinds drawn on all three floors. Number 48 had no blinds drawn. The other homes had windows that were easily recognizable as being used and occupied. Three cars were parked along the street’s short length, but all of them were in front of the other occupied homes. He was tempted to canvass the neighbors to see if any of the occupants had seen anything unusual in the last week or so, but as he stood there, a car came around the corner.

 

Victoria Hughes was looking over the steering wheel at the strange man on her step. John saw her eyes widen as he attempted to flag her down and she stepped on the accelerator to move past him and down the street to freedom. John leapt into the street and threw himself on the bonnet of the car.

 

“Stop this car immediately!” he cried.

 

She screamed and slammed on the brakes. John lost his grip on the bonnet and was thrown into the street in front of the car. He felt the air go out of his lungs as he hit the cobblestones. With a groan, he got back up and faced her.

 

“Where is your sister?” he demanded. “Where is Tabitha?”

 

“Who the hell are you?!” she said. Her knuckles were white on the steering wheel.

 

John wasn’t entirely certain that she wasn’t going to run him over, but he knew if he could keep her here long enough, they would have both sisters in custody: one bound for the hospital, no doubt, and one bound for Scotland Yard. He thought quickly.

 

“We know about the affair. With Archie? We know about him and you. How after your divorce you may have needed a friend?” he said. His hands went out toward her in a calming motion, palms down.

 

“Who are you? Why do you know this? Who’s ‘we’?” she asked.

 

“My name is Doctor John Watson. I work with the consulting detective Sherlock Holmes. We’re investigating your sister’s disappearance. We’ve been trying to find you to talk to you. To figure out where she is. If you know where she is, please tell us. We’re only interested in her safety. All right?”

 

The white knuckles receded. John could see that she was breathing easier now. He had managed to convince her that she wasn’t under suspicion for anything and that she could possibly be given the opportunity to lie to them to steer them away from her. John could practically see her calculate all of this in her head moments before she spoke again.

 

“I haven’t seen her. She came to me four days ago to talk to me about the affair. You’re right about that. But I haven’t been with Archie like that in months. He called it off. Said it wasn’t fair to Tabby. I agreed. We parted ways.”

 

John could hear sirens in the distance. He hoped they would blend in with all the other city sounds so it wouldn’t spook Victoria. She still had her car pointed right at him, after all. Should she become alarmed, she could mow him down in a heartbeat. John tried not to think about what Sherlock had said about his suspicion that she might have killed her ex-husband instead of divorcing him. He had to get her out of that car. Or, he had to get into it.

 

“Would you mind if we had a chat somewhere? You could drive. Just anywhere you feel comfortable. I have a few more questions, if you don’t mind,” said John.

 

Her eyes narrowed and her head tilted as she thought about his proposal. Finally, she shook her head. “No. I’m not accustomed to strangers in my car.”

 

John nodded. “I understand. Only I was hoping not to be so public with this conversation.” He threw a thumb over his shoulder. “Wouldn’t want the neighbors knowing your business.”

 

She glanced up at the other homes beyond John and took a breath. John could hear the sirens even louder now. He needed to keep her talking in order to distract her. “Unless you don’t mind?” he asked. “If you don’t mind, then I’ll ask you this: what was your sister’s reaction to the news of the affair? Was she distraught? Or more angry?”

 

“Angry. Really angry,” said Victoria. “But then, I expected that. She was always such a hot-headed little madam. Always felt she should have everything. Used to lose her mind if she didn’t get her way.”

 

“And you got short shrift, yeah?”

 

Victoria gave a short laugh. “The shit end of the stick, more like. She had the big investment banker for a husband. I got stuck with Harry. A butcher. Mind you, he did fairly well with the brick-and-mortar shops in Greece, but then the government changed and the economy tanked. And he decided to take it all out on me.”

 

“I’m sorry that happened to you,” said John. The sirens were even louder now. Unignorable, in fact. John kept talking anyway. “Did he get abusive? Emotionally? Physically?”

 

“Both,” she said. “Not that anyone cared. Not that anyone did anything about it.” But she began to look around. “What’s going on? Did you call the police?”

 

“No,” said John. “Why would I?”

 

“I don’t trust you,” she said. He could see the panic return to her eyes. “Get out of the way. Get out of the way, now!” John stood his ground. She revved the engine. “Get out of the way. I’m not joking! I will run you down, you liar! You did call the cops! What the hell did you do that for?”

 

John didn’t know what to say except the truth: “Victoria, I promise you, I did NOT call the police.”

 

“I don’t believe you!”

 

“I don’t care!”

 

In the next second, two things happened: a black cab came up and screeched to a halt just behind John, missing him by a mere meter; then three police cars came around the far corner and blocked Victoria’s car in from behind, lights flashing, sirens blaring.

 

“You fucking LIAR!” Victoria tore out of her vehicle and ran down the street, past John and the cab. John gave chase. He caught her by the left arm, and she spun around quickly to face him. John saw a flash of silver and, before he could react, he felt a searing pain along his arm. He let her go and she faced him brandishing a stiletto. “You stay the fuck away from me! I haven’t done anything!”

 

“Then why are you running?” asked John.

 

“You’re trying to pin her disappearance on me, aren’t you?” she asked. “Well you’re wrong. You’re all wrong! I don’t know where my sister is. And even if I did, I sure as hell wouldn’t tell you!” She turned to run again and crashed into a waiting Sherlock. He had come around her from behind, John stalling her just long enough for him to arrive.

 

He grabbed her wrist that held the knife and pulled it from her grasp. She screamed and kicked him and then howled in pain.

 

“Oh dear,” said Sherlock, a façade of fake concern on his face, “I think you may have a visit to the A and E in your future, Ms. Hughes, is it? I believe you may have broken your toe on my boot. Shame.” He looked up and caught Lestrade’s eye. “I believe this is the woman you’re looking for, Lestrade.”

 

Lestrade came up and put her in restraints. As he handed her off to a waiting constable, he said: “I didn’t want to say anything in front of Ms. Hughes, but a preliminary search is going on right now and so far, we haven’t found hide nor hair of the sister.”

 

“That’s because she’s in the vacant one next door, isn’t she, Sherlock?” asked John. He had a hand over the wound on his arm. He was bleeding through his clothing and his breath was a bit shaky, but Sherlock could see he was none the worse for wear. His cab ride had been torturous, and his mind spun with the possibilities of the potential outcome. He would have never forgiven himself if Victoria had shot him. His relief upon seeing him alive and well had been overwhelming.

 

Sherlock’s smile went wide with gratitude and pride. “You’re very correct, doctor. Well observed.”

 

“Nice to know I’m learning something from you,” he said, returning the grin.


	23. Chapter 23

“The physician who saw you said for you to change the bandage twice a day,” said Sherlock. “I heard him distinctly.” He applied the fresh bandage and pressed a bit too heavily on the wound.

 

“There’s no need for compression, Sherlock, OW!” said John. “It’s not actively bleeding, you know. Just stitched up.”

 

“You’re lucky your tendons weren’t severed, he said,” Sherlock reminded him as he wrapped the covering bandage around John’s arm the way John had instructed.

 

“Yes, Sherlock,” said John, “I know. I am still a doctor myself, you know.”

 

“Well, I’m just taking an active interest in your healing process,” said Sherlock, tucking in the final trailing piece and admiring his handiwork.

 

“I’m surprised you’ve not been taking notes as to my rate of healing,” said John, pulling his arm away. “You know, for science.”

 

“Who says I haven’t been?”

 

“Oh?” asked John.

 

“Everything about you interests me, John,” said Sherlock. “I would have hoped you knew that by now.”

 

“I hadn’t guessed that I was such an object of fascination, no.”

 

“Well you are,” said Sherlock simply and got up from the kitchen table.

 

John looked at the scraps of medical supplies and the open med kit on the table. “This is for me to clean up then, is it?”

 

“We must all suffer for our wounds, John,” said Sherlock.

 

“Yeah, I don’t think that’s a real saying, Sherlock,” said John. He swept the scraps of paper and waste into a small bin and packed up the rest of the medical supplies, shelving it in the kitchen. Sherlock was nose-deep in a new e-book by the time he got to the sitting room.

 

The moments ticked by and John just sat there in his chair waiting for Sherlock to break the silence with a sigh or a groan of boredom. Finally, the verdigris eyes met his.

 

“What?”

 

“What?” John replied.

 

“You’re thinking again,” said Sherlock.

 

“Too loudly? Should I go to the bedroom?”

 

Sherlock sighed and the e-book fell to his chest. “I suppose we should talk about it.”

 

“About what?”

 

Sherlock threw the reader aside. “Don’t be obtuse. I know that you want to talk about what happened yesterday; you running off to uncertain danger and leaving me behind because of this damned boot. You did exactly the thing you said you never wanted me to do ever again to you. ‘Don’t go into the darkness without me, Sherlock.’ My God, you are so melodramatic.”

 

John sighed. He flexed his left hand, but it stung under the bandages when he did. He forced his hand to relax. “Sherlock, that was a very specific circumstance. We both knew it.”

 

“And yet, you seem to think that I can’t do the very same thing. When the Barnum thing came up-“

 

“Barnum was setting a trap for you!”

 

“Will you let me finish, please?”

 

John sighed and shut his eyes.

 

“Thank you. When the Barnum thing happened, there was a time stamp on the invitation to meet him. If I was late, he was going to scarper. I knew it. He knew it. We had already lost trace of the partner until that point. I had suffered enough defeats. We all did. So, I chose to go without you. For the case. To save untold lives. He would have gone on killing if I didn’t at least try to capture him. And we did, in the end. We did. You, me, Lestrade. It happened. We won.

 

“Now imagine if I had waited for you. You said you had gotten my text an hour after I sent it because you had intentionally ignored it. You said you were angry with me, and I admit, it was warranted. But because of that hour delay, you couldn’t join me, and I was left on my own to deal with things as best I could. And that’s what I did. If I had waited, he would have gone. His partner still would have died. And he would have killed how many more by now? Three? Four?”

 

And now we have the situation with Victoria Hughes and Tabitha Simpson. Had we delayed, Tabitha would be a corpse and Victoria would have gone to ground somewhere. As it stands, and because of your courage, forward thinking, and fortitude, Victoria is in custody and is standing trial for murder, kidnapping, attempted murder, aggravated assault, GBH, and insurance fraud. And all that, my dear doctor, is down to you. By yourself. Alone.”

 

Now it was Sherlock’s turn to sigh. “This job is never going to be safe. It’s never going to be about the both of us doing what we must all the while attached at the proverbial hip. It can’t! It’s almost impossible! Not if we’re to be thoroughly effective.

 

“What I can tell you is this: in this grand adventure, it makes a considerable difference to me, having someone with me on whom I can thoroughly rely. And you have always been that someone, John. Together or apart, you are always with me. And I with you. I can depend on you and you can count on me. All right? Can we finally put this specter hanging over our relationship to rest? Will you finally concede that this job is dangerous and that we will do what we can in whatever circumstances to do it to the best of our collective abilities even if we cannot do it side-by-side? Can you make that sort of commitment once and for all?”

 

John watched him with such tenderness in that moment, Sherlock felt a lump form in his throat. With difficulty, he swallowed past it and waited.

 

Quietly, John said: “I can. And I will. And I want you to know that I’d do everything the same all over again. And I hate that I love you so damn much. And I love that I love you too. You drive me insane and you put me back together. You mesmerize me and you confound me. I’m sorry that I don’t want you off on your own, but I will never apologize for caring about you. I would be lost without you.”

 

“And I would be lost without my blogger,” said Sherlock.

 

John smiled and began to giggle. Sherlock joined him. Soon they were both lost in laughter until, finally, hand in hand, they moved to the bedroom to get lost in each other once more.


End file.
